Page 1

John reached up with his free hand to massage the back of his neck as he drove. It'd been a long day, and he'd made little progress: the back seat was piled high with encyclopedias he couldn't sell. He sighed and cranked the window down. The cold air would keep him from drifting off. He shifted uncomfortably, settled back into his usual driving posture. Maybe he'd give up the traveling salesman routine, take up a real trade. Maybe-

His brow furrowed. He hunched over the steering wheel and peered through the windshield.

He could see a light, in the distance. Though he couldn't quite make it out, it was at least an indication that he wasn't too far off the beaten path. For the past hour, he'd driven through a night gone pitch black. He'd felt like a swimmer floating lost at sea. The radio station he'd been listening to had gone off the air, and he'd traveled in silence. He'd almost nodded off twice.

Now he straightened in his seat, yawning, and rolled the window up. Hope it's a motel, he thought. He smiled absently at the thought of a nice, warm bed and soft white sheets.

That's when he saw the man.

He was twenty feet away on the right, just emerging from the tree line, and he was wearing what appeared to be a white hospital gown. He lifted an arm and called out as the car passed.

John's head snapped around. What the hell…? He narrowed his eyes, staring back over his shoulder into the lightless void, but he could see nothing now. Turning to the rearview mirror, he searched intently for any sign of the man, but, again, there was nothing. He frowned.

Should I go back, see if he needs help…?

He was wearing a hospital gown, after all…

But then he saw the light up ahead, and it made up his mind for him. Diner, said the neon. He would go in and tell them what he'd seen, tell them to call the police. Yeah, that's what he'd do.

He pulled up, into one of the parking slots, and killed the lights, switched off the engine. He pocketed the keys and sat listening to the engine cool in the chill night air. The diner was small, a tiny oasis in the desert of night. Plate-glass windows ran the length of the front of the building. There was a door to the far left; an open sign hung in the window.

John looked down at his watch. It was only six o'clock. He looked back up at the diner. Though he could see no one in the booths or at the counter, he felt sure the place was open. Hell, six was dinnertime…

He opened the door and got out; stretched; locked and slammed the door. Something caught his eye and he stood for a moment staring down at his own reflection in the glass of the driver's side window: at thirty-five he was lean, with close-cropped dark hair and matching eyes. The rumpled suit was also dark; it matched the tie his ex had given him, as well as his neatly polished shoes. He tucked in the tail of his coffee-stained white shirt, straightened the tie, and walked to the three steps that led up to the diner entrance. Running a palm over his bewhiskered jaw, he looked in through the window.

The place looked deserted.

There was a clock on the wall behind the counter. It had stopped at four-twenty. He reconsidered going in. Something wasn't quite right, here. He looked back down the road in the direction he'd come. He could see nothing, but he knew that the man in the white hospital gown was back there somewhere- probably walking this way…

The thought bothered him.

Going to the corner of the building, he saw that there was an enclosed area out back. There was an eight-foot high chain-link fence with razor wire spiraled through the topmost links. A security light was on. With a reassuring glance back down the road (he didn't want to be surprised by the man in the gown), he walked toward the rear of the diner. Gravel crunched underfoot.

The trees off to the left stirred and he paused to stare at them. Damn, you're gettin' jumpy, he chided himself. He shook his head with a self-deprecating grin and walked on.

There was a small dumpster inside the fence, and a stack of empty wooden crates. The gate was padlocked, from the inside. Probably to keep the yokels from gettin' at that good ol' down home cookin'… He chuckled and went back to the front of the building.

Standing with fists on hips, he looked up and down the road. He could see nothing. The dark hid mile after mile of unbroken tree line, undulating hills, blacktop; nothing more. He considered moving on, but his stomach made up his mind for him, growling insistently. He turned back to the diner and reached for the door- and stopped, looking back. The left front tire was going flat. He dropped his arm, the diner forgotten in light of this new development.

[ Continue to page 2 ]